


Star Light, Star Bright

by Dawnwind



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kid is thinking deep thoughts on a cold, crisp December night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star Light, Star Bright

Twilight came on fast in the mountains, darkness descending before Heyes and Curry had reached their destination. Tired, hungry and possibly a mite off course—even if the Kid refused to acknowledge that fact-- they decided to camp for the night. 

Heyes surveyed the area wearily. There was a small stream, mostly ice, but under a copse of evergreens, the ground was free of snow and relatively dry. The air was cold, almost sharp when he drew in a breath. Felt like his lungs were seared from the inside out, and he pulled up his old woolen scarf to filter his inhalations.

Heyes didn’t relish sleeping out in the frozen ground. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d ever done so, far from it, but if given his druthers, he would have preferred a warm hotel room with a feather bed to lie on. Hadn’t had that luxury in months.

“I’ll start a fire, you get some grub?” he proposed, ground tying his mare.

Curry hunched deeper in his sheepskin jacket and nodded. Without saying a word, he tugged on his chestnut’s reins, leading him into the wintery forest again.

Heyes wasn’t surprised. Kid hadn’t said a word since they’d left the sanctuary they’d used the night before. The price for sleeping between the pews in an old wooden church was hearing the miserly looking preacher practice his Sunday sermon. Mr. Calhoun was a poor speaker in Heyes’ opinion, and his caustic tirade on the evils of just about everything in the modern age had been the thing of brimstone and hellfire nightmares.

Laying a small fire, Heyes considered the alternative to sleeping next to his partner with the moon glowing above them and the stars twinkling so pretty. Hands down, he’d take the icy ground with Kid’s warm body spooned against his to the damnation of a vindictive minister. At this time of year, hell, most times of year, he didn’t agree with the parson in any event. 

Not twenty minutes later by Heyes’ pocket watch, Kid came back with a pheasant in hand. He squatted by the little fire, the toes of his boots almost in the ashes, and silently accepted the cup of coffee Heyes pressed into his leather gloved hands. Kid sipped the brew staring up at the night sky with a pensive expression.

Heyes plucked the pheasant, saving the long tail feathers because they were too pretty to toss away. Plus, when money was scarce, it was possible to sell the feathers to milliners for ladies’ hats. Roast pheasant was about all they had for dinner—the snow covering the ground made it difficult to find wild onions or any kind of savory greens. He had the bird on a spit, sizzling over the fire, and was mixing the last of their flour and salt with water to make biscuits before Kid said a word.

“You think that whole thing about the star of David shining over the stable where the baby Jesus was born is true?”

There was something dark and troubled in Curry’s eyes, a weary anguish that made Heyes ache, but instinctively he knew sympathy wasn’t the right call. “Jedediah Leviticus Curry,” he admonished lightly, gratified to see Kid roll his eyes in mock disgust at the name. “Those sound like blaspheming words t’me. Don’t let that sour old holy man get to you.”

“Old Father Joseph Michael at the children’s home would have blistered my backside for even thinking such a thing.” Kid nodded, squinting up at the moon. “But I can’t help wondering, on a night like this…”

Past the dark sweep of trees, the heavens were hung with stars, millions of pinpoint diamonds laid out on a blue-black spread, the finest view Heyes could ever imagine. One star was far brighter than all the rest, as if trying to rival the waxing moon. 

“There?” Heyes pointed. _“’And lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was’_. Matthew 2:9.”

“Father Joseph Michael always liked you best,” Kid chided fondly, turning the pheasant on the spit. “I always kinda thought we was a lost cause. That preacher back in Promised Land Valley didn’t say anything that I haven’t already thought. Ain’t no place for sinners like us in church.”

“Kid, if the great territory of Wyoming can see fit to pardon you and me, the odds are even that Jesus would forgive two boys who started out rough.” Heyes leaned toward his partner, watching the puffs of breath-cloud rise over Kid’s head as he exhaled.

“Makes a convincing point,” Kid conceded, pushing his boots closer to the glowing ashes. “But in your own defense, you’d have to say that.”

Heyes grunted, drinking coffee to let Kid finish his thoughts. 

“I still got to wonder if such a thing could actually happen. God sendin’ down a baby to a girl barely grown herself…just have him end up on the cross, beaten and nekkid like one of—“

“Us,” Heyes finished for him, remembering the picture of Jesus in the church last night. He’d stared at it long after Calhoun went to his alcove to sleep. Jesus had been blue eyed, with blond curly hair—very like the Kid would look if his hair reached his shoulders. Didn’t seem likely that Jesus would resemble the Irish Curry family but then, Heyes had no clear idea what someone born in Bethlehem way back when would look like. He’d seen one of them Jewish rabbis when he was in Denver, and was surprised to see the man was as dark haired as himself.

“What’s the point?” 

“Makes God more human, don’t it?” Heyes asked. When had he turned into any kind of preacher? He had more sins stacked in his column than most people, and equally as many as the Kid—so where did his belief come from? “Spreads hope. Pure and simple.”

“Even for two shiftless reprobates like us?” Kid looked up at the brilliant star.

“Yeah.” Heyes pulled Curry hard against him, feeling that strong body: so brave when faced with another outlaw’s pistol and yet guileless and small against the wrath of some fly-by-night Bible thumper intent on spreading fear of the Almighty. 

“So why’d that preacher man get all fired up about brimstone and hell if everybody can be saved?” Kid asked into Heyes’ neck. He shivered and pulled back. “Dinner’s burning,” he added, pulling the spit away from the flames.

“I reckon that’s his guilt and blame. He uses it to pull other folks down to his level ‘stead of letting hope and belief pull ‘em up,” Heyes said softly.

“Ain’t right.” Kid split the cooked fowl with his hunting knife, giving each of them half. The drop biscuits were good for sopping up the juices, and Heyes still had about half of a bottle of rotgut in his saddlebag to wash it all down with. The food filled his belly, but he was surprised at how the discussion had filled his mind—and having Kid so close filled his heart.

“Lots of things ain’t right, but folk keep on doing ‘em,” Heyes said. He’d never exactly been on the law-abiding side himself, and he’d never strictly held to the Ten commandments, but then—he’d never killed anyone, nor coveted a neighbor’s wife, which meant he’d kept some of commandments. “Bible says it ain’t right to eat shellfish, too, but nobody seems to give a fig if restaurants in San Francisco sell ‘em. We all got our good and bad points, seems to me.”

“Seems to me that the preachers who talk about the good works—Jesus on the mountain passing out the fishes and bread --would get more worshippers into church than those who claim we’re all gonna burn in hell,” Kid mused.

“There’s fewer of those sort,” Heyes agreed, taking a satisfying swallow of the whiskey. He relished the burn of alcohol down his throat and passed the bottle to his partner. “But it’s during the dark, cold nights in the middle of December when we want to see the light. Maybe some folks feel warmer imagining hell, I don’t know. The story of a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes—“

“Lyin’ in a manger next to the cows.” Kid put the rotgut between his knees and tucked his gloved hands under his armpits to stay warm.

“Is such a pretty picture—something…” Heyes thought a moment, remembering the first time he’d heard the story. He’d been tiny, under five years, with a little blond shadow toddling behind him. He and Kid had gone into the Curry family barn to peer into the hay filled manger and wonder if a baby would fit in. “We can understand. Mary and Joseph was poor, they didn’t have anywhere else to go—but there was something special that kept them going.”

“You’re the one gives me hope that somethin’ better’s gonna come along,” Curry said after a long swig of whiskey. “Every time you bent over a safe, spinning the dial so careful, I thought this would be the last one. We’d find our pot a’gold and quit.”

“But it never happened,” Heyes finished. He used to wonder why not and then, quite belatedly, had figured it out. Because he’d liked the rush too much—that vibrant anticipation of the next job: flexing his fingers just before turning the combination dial ‘so careful’. But the rush hadn’t been worth it—simply prolonged the misery of always being on the run and afraid. The fun had drained away years ago. Having Kid with him had been his joy and his future. 

“You’re the one found the hope, Kid,” Heyes said soberly, looking into those blue eyes. Not Jesus, just the Kid, but someone he believed in, nonetheless. “The amnesty. We won’t be living much better than we do right now without money—but we’ll be legal and free, which is a damned sight better than on the run.”

“And if all those preachers jawing from their pulpits think the entire congregation’s sinning, we’d fit right in.” Kid gave him a reluctant, crooked grin.

“See, we are regular folk.” Heyes pounded him on the back with a laugh.

“Not so sure about that one.” Kid snorted. He reached over to his saddle bags and rooted around for a thick, squat bundle. “Got you something—for Christmas.”

“When? Where?” Heyes took the package swathed in old newspaper. Kid always knew Heyes prized any printed word as much as he did the gift.

“In Promised Land Valley yesterday, when I went to that little bakery for the cornpone, and the baker-lady gave me the apples for free.” Kid grinned. “She had fruitcake for sale, all pretty with a—“

“Bow on top,” Heyes said, unwrapping the cake topped with a jaunty red ribbon. He smoothed the newspaper to save for later. The cake felt heavy in his hand, chock full of raisins, nuts and all kinds of fruit. His mouth watered. “This will keep for a goodly while—and we’ll have something to fill that hollow leg of yours on the long rides, even when we don’t see a critter all day.”

“Hope comes in all forms.” Kid nodded, looking up at the blazing star again. “Don’t matter if it’s a baby born when folks was expecting a king to come charging in, or a star to lead the way on a bleak night—“

“Or just a friend to lay beside a body when it’s cold.” Heyes leaned closer and kissed his partner on the lips. “Got to believe that hope will survive until the brighter times.”

“Merry Christmas, Heyes.” Kid slipped his arms inside Heyes’ jacket, holding him tight around the ribs. Their next kiss was long and satisfying. “We didn’t get to do nothing last night with Pastor Calhoun shouting his own version of the gospel. Want to generate some heat?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Heyes laughed into Kid’s mouth, brushing Kid’s tongue with his own. 

It was far too cold to disrobe even a little: Heyes flexed his fingers and unbuttoned his fly, watching Kid manage his buttons with his gloves still on. That rush of anticipation lit Heyes from within, swelling his member. The tingle of arousal made his heart gallop. Kid—his long companion, his love, his life. 

“Fuck.” Kid shivered violently when his cock sprang out into the frigid air. 

“Always knew you had a way with words, Kid.” Heyes grabbed hold, pressing it to his own. The friction of naked cock rubbing on cock was amazing. He could feel the throb of life—Kid’s heart pulsing in time with his even through leather gloves. He vibrated with need, the cold air a shock despite the warmth of their combined bodies.

Heyes sucked in an icy breath, feeling Kid’s hands still bracketing his ribcage. With the trees and mountains surrounding them, they were too exposed and too chilly to prolong the act. He pumped their cocks together, staring into Kid’s face, watching Kid throw back his head with an unearthly howl.

The orgasm was powerful and fiery, tearing through Heyes and up to the sky. Felt like the Almighty laid a hand on him that night and told him that life would go on.  
As long as he had Kid Curry by his side.

“Warms a body up faster’n anything I know,” Kid said sleepily, dropping a kiss on Heyes’ cock before he tucked it back inside his longjohns. “A piece of fruitcake would go right fine after that.”

“You wouldn’t refuse food after a four—no, a six course meal at the Ritz Hotel in New York City.” Heyes shook a finger at him, waiting while Kid sliced thick pieces of cake with his knife. 

“Do they have six course meals?” Kid asked, taking a bite of fruitcake.

“According to all I’ve read.” Heyes waved a hand at the newspaper, chewing on the dense cake. It was delicious—redolent with brandywine, bits of cherry, pecans and cinnamon. “French foods with fancy cheeses, all kinds of sauce on the pheasant and venison.”

“I’ve eaten enough pheasant and venison to last a lifetime.” Kid licked the last of the crumbs off his lips. “I want something exotic. Let’s go east, Heyes.” He pointed to the bright star in the sky, in the same direction where the sun would rise in the morning. “We ain’t never been past Missouri. I want something new.”

 _Hope._ That something better would come along.

“Don’t matter where we go, Kid.” Heyes pulled the blankets from his roll around their shoulders. “’Long as you’re riding beside me. Merry Christmas.”

FIN


End file.
